


Trainwreck

by swinchests



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Episode: s07e11 Happily Ever After, I set out to write something in Mickey's POV idk how I even got here, Ian knows what he's about to do tbh, M/M, POV Ian Gallagher, Season/Series 07, Semi-requited Love, pls notice the "fuck you gallagher" I work hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 10:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13973634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swinchests/pseuds/swinchests
Summary: They're going to Mexico. Ian is taking his meds, and he's totally in his right mind. He is.A few missing scenes and some elaborations on what's already there.





	Trainwreck

Mickey's cheeks have been pink ever since they left Chicago. On pain of death— well, that’s what he’s assuming— Ian doesn't say anything about it. He doesn't say anything about any of the ways that Mickey looks different, but he's noted them all. He's kind of pale from having spent the last two summers indoors. His hair is fresh-cut and his face is clean-shaven, and for that reason, he looks surprisingly clean. Ian doesn't remember the last time he'd seen his skin unbruised in any way. The letters on his knuckles are re-inked, a bolder font. He’s filled out in a way that Ian can’t put his finger on. He's still short, weighs the same, but carries himself tall and wide. Ian doesn't know how someone can come out of prison looking like the world has never kicked him. Somehow, he takes up more space. 

They pick Damon up as the sun is going down. He’s waiting at a self-storage on an unlit street, in the very south of Chicago. For the first few hours, Ian feels like he's floating—or at least like he's been huffing spray paint. Everything is loud music, endless bags of junk food, weed, Mickey's stupid fucking sunglasses. Damon chugs down his gatorade, and makes a pipe out of the bottle. Joints evolve into whatever else. He keeps asking when he’ll get to sit up front; Mickey keeps telling him to fuck off.

Ian asks what the plan is a couple times, and gets vague answers in response. _Don't worry,_ and _I got it covered._ He doesn't know what it is that makes him believe that this plan is worth shit. It isn't like he has great regard for Mickey's planning and foresight. But in fairness, his own is fucked to hell, too. He doesn't know how long it takes to drive to the border. He doesn't know what will happen when Fiona and Lip figure it out, or when Trevor inevitably calls. If he asked himself why he came in the first place, he wouldn't even be able to answer. Mickey is here. If anyone is capable of weaseling his way out of Chicago... After awhile, Mickey tells him to turn his data off, so the feds can't track it. He stops getting texts after that. Ian trusts it— trusts him.

He doesn’t fidget anymore. His hands used to be everywhere— touching his nose, tugging his hair, flying through the air like exclamation points marking everything he says. They seem steady now. Like he's finally figured out what to do with them. But a balanced pace doesn’t make him mellow, either. He's all energy— sitting in a cell will do that to you. Ian imagines flying through flatlands in a jeep is the exact opposite, and when he puts it that way, he gets it. Juxtapositions in the extreme are what make the most sense to him.

He pokes at Ian's jacket. "You better have packed lighter clothes, man. I don't know if they got shopping malls where we're headed."

"I couldn't have gotten 'em from the attic without Fiona asking questions. I figured I'd cut these jeans if I had to."  

"We're going to the _beach,_ dumbass. You’re gonna have to. Shoulda brought your swim trunks."

"Mick, have you ever even owned swim trunks?" 

"Fuck no." He glances over and winks, grin broad as the grassland outside. "Guess we're swimmin' naked." Ian laughs. Damon sits up, thrusting the gatorade bottle between them.

"Yo, hit this and shut the fuck up."

 

— — —

 

It’s not all fun and games, drugs and quickies — especially not once they ditch Damon. Springfield, St. Louis... Springfield again. The further they go, the more real it gets. The swell in his heart loses its sweetness, becomes tight behind his ribs. Here's how it looks from the outside: a car that’s not his, a plan that’s half-baked, state lines coming and going. Singing in the car to make a Milkovich laugh. A flashback to something he’d rather pretend never happened, in the first place. New rushes of adrenaline come at even intervals, and it starts to feel normal.

It might look kind of  _manic,_ but it's not. He can't remember if their silence was ever comfortable, so he colors it in just in case. If he _were_ manic, he wouldn't be so reasonable. 

“When I did that porno…” He starts, chokes. He had announced that he had wanted to say something— let that be the only warning, in case he were to get shut down. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Mickey go stock-still, shifting his grip on the steering wheel. He might think it looks subtle; if it were anyone else he were trying to fool, it might be. But Ian watches it. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

There is no reply. Mickey veers to the right lane, turns off at the next exit and doesn’t look at him. He goes on. “At the time, all I was thinking was that it was good money. You know, that we could use it. I didn’t. I guess I thought it wasn’t too different from what I was already doing.” But that’s not really true, is it? He’s seen Mickey, before, the times he came to the club. Watched him from his vantage point on the stage, with his eyes on alert for anyone who got too close, too intent. He’s seen him swoop in, sharp-toothed, and make FUCK U-UP a very imminent threat to his clientele. 

When Mickey wasn't there, Ian was sucking dudes off in the bathroom stall. He still doesn't know about all of it. Officially, the club rule was that he wasn't allowed to turn tricks. But if that were really the case... the gray area was pretty fucking expansive.

It’s hard to explain. He can’t try to rationalize it; there was never any real rationale, to begin with. Not enough to make any sense now, after the fact. It’s a blur in his brain. The whole year was like a speeding train. His head rushed; the world flew; sparks spit from under his feet. It all came screeching to a halt when the cops clapped handcuffs on him and took Yevgeny away. _I didn’t realize this was so important to you._ It didn’t make sense to him why Mickey was angry until almost a year later, when his meds leveled out. Leaving the club with a stranger, no call, no text, only resurfacing late the next morning. He’d be pissed, too, when you put it that way. Six hundred bucks wouldn't have made it okay. 

"I didn't think about how you'd have felt about it until I got my shit straight." 

But it’s a lot, and it's complicated. It isn’t coming out right. He used to think that he was good at talking about how he felt. Maybe the disease took it away— or maybe it was only in comparison to Mickey's constipation. He isn't quite sure. Mickey huffs, crooked front teeth poking from behind a fat lip in a limp snarl. He doesn’t look away from the road. He pulls into the first Shell Station they find.

“Need gas,” he mutters, and he’s out the door, grappling for his cigarettes. 

He stands out there smoking long after the gas is done pumping.

 

— — —

 

There are three state troopers between Arkansas and Jesus’ place. Ian doesn’t let his foot twitch on the gas pedal, no matter how much his instinct tells him to floor it. ( _Fight or flight,_ he always reacts the same.) Mickey turns his face away, out the window. The cops always pass them by. Mickey always turns back to smirk at him, wide and toothy. They’ve always done best when they focus on the little victories.

 

— — —

 

"I can't believe you thought I was gonna rob that bank."

"Fuck you— you did that on purpose. Think you're fuckin' funny or something."

Okay, so maybe he does think it's a little funny. Mickey is thumbing through the bills, counting in a mutter. Ian glances at him and then back to the road— admittedly, it's a little embarrassing. Like the money makes him look any different, or says anything about him other than that he's got a steady job. The first clean money he's ever made shouldn't make him feel this goddamned dirty, that's for sure. That's just twenty years on the south side for you. When he's done counting, he stacks the money up neatly, and tucks it into the glove box. Ian's leg bounces. "Is it gonna be enough?"

"I don't know. It's a good start." They'd decided that they needed _real_ money. Ian's still not sure exactly how much that entails— he's never seen _real_ money in his life— and he's not sure how it's going to help them get into Mexico. It's not like they're going to try to bribe border patrol.

... They're not going to try to bribe border patrol, right?

"It isn't gonna mean much if we don't make it there."

Perhaps it's narcissistic, but he wonders if cashing out at the bank will have raised any red flags. The Chicago investigator who had come to his house was only there to tick off a box. He was quick and vague and, for whatever reason, seemed to take Ian's word for it. At the time, it had been the truth. But if the cop knew anything about Gallaghers, then he'd be more careful than that. He's missed two shifts by now, and he's liquidated his bank account in a state he's never visited before. If they were smart, then they'd still have their eye on him.

Then again, if cops were smart, the two of them wouldn't be here to begin with.

"We're gonna make it there," Mickey promises. He's not even looking at him, busy fishing the last cigarette from a carton he'd found on the floor in the back seat. Ian wonders if he even hears himself saying it, or if it's reflex. "Still got, like, three hundred miles to think of something. Texas is a big fuckin' state. S'long as the cops don't catch on between here and the other side of that security check, we're golden." Ian rolls his eyes, and lets the simplicity slide for now. 

"You know what else is big?"

He earns a low, dirty laugh from the passenger seat, a grin that's about as much gums as it is teeth. Mickey shakes his head. "You could have just said you were gonna go to an ATM." 

"All I said was we could get money at the bank!"

"Yeah, exactly! You know that means a stickup!"

"A _stickup?_ Who are you, Joe Pesci?"

 _"Fuck you,_ Gallagher!"

 

— — —

 

“What am I leaving behind, my family? Who cares if I never see those shit heads again? You had my back more than they ever did.”

Ian looks, but doesn’t answer. His shoulder is sore where it had been unsparingly punched. His teeth ache where he'd bitten into his bottle in surprise. He supposes that it was Mickey's turn to throw something unpleasant in his face— or into his arm. It _was_ hard to see him behind the glass, but that's not the only thing. Mickey doesn't look like he's buying it, either.

Because it's all wrong, he thinks. He never had Mickey’s back.

"I'm sorry." The bottle in his hands has sweated dry, and the beer is getting warm. He picks at the label with his nail, glue sticking underneath, and watches it crumble off the bottle in little white pieces. The crickets are jeering at him. "I'm the reason you went in, in the first place."

And he knows Mickey isn't going to deny it, because it's true. Mickey was the first to remind him. _The whole reason I did time was for going after the bitch that tried to ruin you._  

But Mickey shakes his head. "Never asked you to be sorry."

Ian pushes his tongue into a sore tooth. He's not sure if they're only talking about jail, now, or if the conversation earlier at the Shell station is coming back to bite him, too. As far as the sentence— well, for the record, he didn't fucking ask Mick to get back at Sammi on his behalf. He shouldn't have to feel sorry; it wasn't his call. 

The lithium was kind of like a speeding train, too. Hazy— a little like mania, but without the joy, or the will to live. Maybe more like a speeding train... but in one of those dreams where you can't run, no matter how hard you try. He remembers breaking up like it happened twenty years ago, or like he saw it in a movie once. He remembers sitting on the porch, watching Mickey race down the street. In the moment, he told himself that was exactly the reason why. He called and Mickey came running, literally, wide eyed and out of breath, and Ian couldn't fucking stand it. He didn't want to be the spike in Mickey's blood pressure, anymore. It wasn't helping either of them. 

It didn't feel like anything, either— that was the most egregious part. Sammi chased Mickey down the street. Eventually, Ian snubbed out his cigarette, and went inside for dinner. He found out later that the cops had come. He knew he should have felt worse. He should have been horrified. He should have felt _something._ He just... didn't.

It would have happened like that even if Mickey hadn't done whatever the hell Mickey did.

"I was a real douchebag when I—"

"I said, I didn't ask you to be sorry." 

Ian can hear everything in his voice— always could, from the start, even when Mickey thought he was covering it up. The _Christ, Ian._ The _I love you_. The _we can do better than that, now_. The _it's in the past_.

But it's not in the past. It's just better-medicated than it was before.

Mickey falls back on the blanket and takes their cigarette with him. Ian follows, because that's what he does. The sky is dark black and starless, almost totally hidden by the underbelly of the bridge. For being so far from home, it all looks suspiciously like the south side. He can squint and imagine it's the train above him— whether that's for better or worse, he doesn't know.The moon hangs right above Mickey's head. Ian imagines a direct line to it, built from the cigarette smoke— thinks it's a little poetic, even if he can't put a finger on why. He doesn't look when the head next to him turns, eyes checking him up and down. When he was fifteen, it would make him feel stupidly warm. Mickey's eyes were always sharp. Always towing the line between expectant and unassuming, as he wanted the eyes on him to be. After that, the way that Mickey would give him the once-over—like the scotch tape that held him together was grimy and peeling— would make his skin crawl. He doesn't feel like that now. 

Mickey didn't ask him to be sorry. He _asked_ for was a visit, every once in a goddamned while. Ian didn't deliver on that either. 

"You ever think about me? When I was in the joint?"

"... A lot."

Mickey lets out the breath that Ian could feel him holding, sucks it back in sort of wetly. Ian prods harder at his sore tooth. It makes it easier to put a name to the heavy feeling weighing on his ribs. He doesn't want to have to think about how long it weighed on Mickey's. Selfish prick.

"Fuck, I missed you."

Mickey still has their cigarette in his hand, and he's dying for it, but he doesn't ask. He's not that much of a dick. 

He missed him, too. He did. He knows he did— especially once he pulled himself together. But super-gluing his brain back into his body took time, and by the time the paste dried... Well, he'd never had a hard time with men. It was easier to go out and find someone new than to crawl back to someone who could only be there halfway. Who would already want answers. What was he supposed to say to Mickey? It was easier with Caleb, with Trevor, anyone he wouldn't have to explain himself to. 

And besides, once he had himself together again, it was better just to keep moving forward. To not look back. And maybe that left Mickey eating his dust— but what if he turned around, and fell right back apart? He can't keep up with that, anymore. Needs to move slower. His neck is still cramped from the last time; so is Mick's. He can't keep giving everyone around him whiplash.

But then, Mickey got out. Got right the fuck in front of him. Now it kind of looks like he's falling apart, anyway. The thing is that the last couple days— the stolen car, the freeway— have felt a hell of a lot like a speeding train, too.

 He didn't do this because he's manic. He's not manic. Jesus Christ.

A part of him is waiting to change the subject. Mickey crawls out of his own head and does it for him. "We still gotta figure out how the fuck to get past the border, anyway." 

"I have an idea." He clears his throat; turns his head to wait for eyes. Two fingers stretch out for that cigarette, the only glow in the starless night. Maybe it's not a good idea to share, anymore. He's going to need a lot more nicotine to get him through. "But you have to promise not to punch me."

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I might write about Ian and see if I could try to understand him better. It turns out that I still kind of don't. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave me a comment and let me know if it was even coherent!


End file.
